


#50

by hhopp



Series: Hhopp's Destiel Angst-a-Thon [13]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Castiel Whump, Dean Whump, Drabble, Graphic Description, Like really angsty?, M/M, Morbid, Serious Injuries, Torture, Whump, angsty, i barely remember writing this, it was in my drafts folder for like four months
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 08:49:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11917371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hhopp/pseuds/hhopp
Summary: "You're strong, baby. You have to be."





	#50

Footsteps tapped down the hall, a steady metronome. Cas’ eyes flashed in panic; they both knew it was his turn. Dean cradled his face, thumbs stroking at his already tender cheekbones. 

 

“You’re strong, baby. You have to be.”

 

“I can’t, Dean, I can’t—” 

 

They knew it was a dangerous job. Dean had tried to argue with HQ, tried to get another few guys on the case, even just as backup, but they weren’t having any of it. The suits always underestimated this stuff, always figured they could handle it. _Newsflash, you morons, we can’t._

 

The door creaked open. Light spilled into the room like blood. 

 

“You’ll be okay. I promise you’ll be okay. I’ll be right here when you get back, they’ll let you go and you’ll come right back here to me and our people will get us out of here real soon. You’ll be okay, Cas, I promise, baby. I’ll be right here waiting for you.”

 

He was dragged away with wild, feral terror dripping from his face, his screams enough to put Munch’s painting to shame. Dean had to grind his teeth together to keep from shouting with him. 

 

There wasn’t much to do after they took Cas away. He counted ceiling tiles until he went cross-eyed, catalogued his injuries and did his best to clean and dress them in the dark.

 

He absolutely couldn’t sleep. The cries reverberating through the halls made certain of it. 

 

The other sounds, though, were even worse. They had put him through the same routine and every noise on the other side of the wall made him flinch. The splinter of what he was certain was a whip— _crack_. Jolt. _Crack_. Jolt. _Crack._ He bit his tongue when Cas howled. His own back stung. _Crack_. 

 

Later came the borderline cheerful _schling_ of the knife whirring, over and over again, along the sharpener. They liked to tease a little bit, get your heart racing in anticipation before it bit into you like fire. _He’s strong. He’s strong. Cas is strong, he can handle it. He’s strong. He’ll be okay._ He could imagine, almost feel, the blood raining out of each cut. Gingerly, he touched a hand to his back, where they’d scraped off the flesh in sheets. It stung and he withdrew. 

 

After what seemed like hours, that stopped. He could not hear it, but he was certain his partner’s breaths were labored, ragged. His own weren’t any different. 

 

Later he heard what could not be mistaken for anything but sizzling. _No_. He’d forgotten about this part. It was all coming back now, the orange flickers in his periphery like tongues, fire hissing like venomous snakes. Everything fading away except for pain, worse than anything he’d ever felt, white hot ripples threading through his muscle and bone until it was all he was. The smell of burning flesh floated through the vents, it was almost like pork. 

 

_Damn_ was he hungry. 

 

At the thought, he began to vomit. 

 

At some point or another, he passed out, a few feet away from the puddle of sick on the floor. The practically inhuman yowls still echoing did not a peaceful lullaby make. 

 

When he woke, light was again pouring into the room. A pile of limbs which could generously be called a man fell through the doorway, whimpering. It went dark again. 

 

“Cas? That you?” He whined something that sounded affirmative. Dean dragged his sore limbs across the little room to get an idea of what kind of state he was in. “Oh, Cas. Baby.” He was torn to shreds. There wasn’t an inch of his body which wasn’t covered in abused flesh— bruised, burnt, cut to ribbons. He looked like he’d been shoved through a meat grinder a few times over. 

 

“Out,” he panted. “We need— out. This— place—”

 

“Shh, shh. Take it easy. I’ll get us out of here, baby. I will. I promise, I’ll find a way.” The world turned blurry, like wearing a friend’s glasses, and a few tears dribbled down his face. He carded a hand through Cas’ now oily black locks and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, careful of the bruises. “Get some rest, okay? I’ll be right here.”

 

It took three more months for their guys to get them out. By that point, Dean was short a few fingers and the doctors at the hospital weren’t sure whether Cas would ever walk again. After that, they got themselves the hell out of the life. 

 

They changed their names and bought themselves a house in south Idaho, a little thing with a wraparound porch and no neighbors. The tattooed young woman with psych books on her shelf they made appointments with when they went to town talked about PTSD— Dean always looked pointedly at his hands and ignored her suggestions for breathing exercises. Cas tried them and still woke up screaming, still had panic attacks at one o’clock, four o’clock, ten o’clock in the morning, still whimpered when Dean opened their bedroom door without letting him know he was coming and the hall light spilled into the room. There was no reason to put stock into the psychology nonsense, it didn’t do squat for people like them. 

 

Cas made it easier, though. He started feeling like maybe he could be strong enough to protect him, if he needed it. He gave him a purpose. And he knew that if he needed to be, he could be strong for him. 

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing. Kudos, Comments, you know the drill if you've ever read an author's note before.


End file.
